


Waiting For His Chance

by megazorzz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 1940s, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic James "Bucky" Barnes, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, James "Bucky" Barnes - Freeform, M/M, Not too too serious, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Rating Change, Rating May Change, Wise women, fluff with plot, steve rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky goes out on a lot of dates, sure, but how many of them does he actually like? </p><p>Steve waits patiently at home while Bucky contemplates his confusion, bewilderment and the bottom of his glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For His Chance

            “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Margaret said, snuffing out a cigarette and catching her breath.

            “What can I say? I’m a real charmer,” Bucky replied. Margaret was the sort of girl you spent a pretty dime on. She had a fine, cultured air about her. It was a learned and affected sort of thing, but Bucky didn’t hold it against her.

            “Wanna go another round?” He took a swig of warm beer. “The band’s starting up again.”

            Batting her eyelashes, Margaret puckered her lips oh so slightly—like she was kissing angels—and reached across the table past the dwindling candle. “You know I could. But,” she stroked his hand, “I was thinking we could go back to my place for a nightcap.”

            He loosened his collar, wicking up sweat with his index finger. “You sure? It’s our first night out.” He smeared a mischievous grin across his face, one he’s seen in the comic strips of soiled newspapers blowing in the curbs. “I could be a ne’er-do-well, for all you know.”

            “The way you nurse that bottle, it’d be hard to think otherwise.” She playfully flicked the tip of his nose. “But I think I’d be in good hands, even if they’re a little callused.”

            Bucky took another swig. “Good hands, eh?”

            She clasped her hands together in her lap, impatience eliciting a sigh. “You put on a tough front, but I know you’re a sweetie-pie. It’s as if all you wanted to do tonight was dance.” Bucky felt her long lacquered nails creep over his knee and up his thigh. “And we’ve done that.” Her eyes faded into darkness, voice adopting a practiced, sultry tone of long-lashed starlets.  “So…what do you think, James? Want to get out of here?”

            “Just a couple more?” Bucky flashed her his wry grin and she all but melted. “Then we’ll get outta here. Promise.”

            After a few more rounds of drinks, a game or two of billiards and an arm-wrestling match, Margaret got what Bucky had promised, but only just. Arm hooked in hers, Bucky dutifully walked her home, taking long calculated steps, like an actor on the stage. She brushed her auburn hair off of her shoulders and smiled, glamorous in the streetlights. As they ascended the steps of her stoop, she wreathed her fingers in his and swept a finger along his exposed collarbone, his tie having long been jammed into his breast pocket. “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

            His mouth welcomed hers with the polite cool of a bartender. It should have been romantic. “See ya later, sugar,” Bucky whispered. “I’ll call you.”

            And then Margaret, convinced that she had him wrapped around her lacquered finger, was met with a cold breeze. He stumbled at the corner, his foot hitting only air when he thought the block ended an inch later, but he continued, stoic like Steve. He turned, and in the pale moonlight she saw his smirk, that smirk that reeled her in and had her nearly fooled. She sighed.

            After he turned the block, his stride became less certain. Margaret, Carol, Joyce, Dorothy—all had fallen for him. And he never called any of them. He pushed his way into another dive bar, hoping that divining gazes into the bottom of his glass could tell him why he left them. He let the foam drip down over his fingers, remembering their powdered faces, red lips and how they laughed. Kissing girls was pleasant only in that he found kissing generally so. And he went out with some of the most beautiful numbers in the city.

But in spite of this, never was he, his arm was slung around a doll’s waist, the one to tug the other in for a second. Never did he encounter that rush of swelling affection like in the romance flicks, when the bows of the violins record the hero’s love in diaries of bloated, profuse song. He wanted to heave lovelorn sighs like Steve did when those strings overflowed in the darkness of the movie theater.

            He took a deep drink to drown his confusion.

            “Something on your mind?” the barkeep asked. “You look like you’re trying to get some forgetting done.” He shook his head. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

            “I guess you could say that.”

 

\+ + +

 

            For the past month or so, Steve’s been holding Bucky’s hair back, so to speak. Heavy sheets blocked out the sun. Bucky lay on the beat-up couch, glass of water on the floor beside him. He had been something of a mess last night, what with his clumsy feet hitting the floor like bricks, waking Steve and their poor widower neighbor one floor down. He just barely made it to the toilet, but Steve was there, rubbing his back in small, soothing circles, reproaching him softly.

            Eventually, once the sickly paleness had passed, Steve sat across from him on the couch, pad in his lap. He sharpened his pencil. “What about Vivien? You seemed to like her a good deal. Had a good head on her shoulders too.” Bucky groaned. “Maybe she’d be able to keep track of your bar tab. Rid us of our ‘Dark Room Sundays.’”

            “She was too frigid.”

            “What about Dinah? Or did you foul up that date too?”

            Bucky sat up, eyes bloodshot and ringed with early morning hours. “Hey, I ain’t the one staying home every night while the other has a good time out.” Bucky collapsed against the back of the couch.

            “So looks can be deceiving, huh? Yeah, ralphing in the toilet at 3 a.m. is exactly what I picture when I think of 'good times.'” Steve’s voice stung.

            “Sorry. That came out wrong.” Bucky waited for Steve’s frown to evaporate. Steve could never stay mad at him for long. Bucky nearly hated him for that. “What’d you get up to last night anyway?”

            Steve shrugged, making long marks with his pencil. “Read a bit, cleaned a bit. The usual.” His eyes pierced Bucky’s foggy eyes like a beacon.

            Breaking his gaze, Bucky rubbed his stubble. He hated thinking of Steve alone, but resigned himself to blaming Steve’s stubbornness. Sometimes he wished that would rub off on him; then at least he’d be able to say no for once. “You know, you don’t have to stay in all the time. You can come out with me.”

            Steve scoffed and ran an eraser across the page. “I know I don’t have to stay here alone. Seems like you’re the one making that decision for me.” Steve started on Bucky’s face, detailing worry’s small wrinkles, ignoring the sting in Bucky’s eyes and the way his lips parted in protest.

            “I just—I just need to find the right person, that’s all. I mean, we can’t live here forever, you know?” Bucky downed his water. Steve ran a hand through Bucky's hair.

            Steve’s face was stone for a few moments and then returned to his soft, easy smile. “Oh. And who’s going to be the ‘right’ one for you? Probably a fish from the way you drink.” Steve retreated to fill Bucky’s glass.

            Bucky laughed as loud as his ransacked body would allow. He rolled lazily onto his stomach, taking the glass and looking up at Steve. “I don’t know. Blonde hair.” He sighed. “I guess someone who’ll put up with me.”

            “Tall order but, you’ll find her someday, Buck. Girls like talking to you—you’re a natural. Then you’ll get married, with me as your best man, and have kids and a great big town house and a dog named Spot.” Steve sat again and playfully punched Bucky’s shoulder.

            He craned is neck to really look at Steve, resting his hand on Steve's knee for precious leverage. “Yeah. Sure will.” Steve quietly grinned, lips closed tight and eyes tossed hastily aside, afraid they would speak on his behalf.

 

\+ + +

 

            Barbara wasn’t from New York, but she could have fooled anyone. She was a walking American Dream, having moved from her old, sparse life in Illinois to the big city, just as so many downtrodden women did in the movies. She wore a big pin on her lapel. “Not glass,” she had insisted. Her eyebrows were plucked and high on her brow above an innocent dot of a nose and cheeks on the border of plump. Her voice, her effervescence drew Bucky to her, and he thought, by pure energy alone, she could excite him into manhood. Steve would have loved her as a model, he thought.

            “Acting, though. Is it easy or do the actors and actresses just make it look that way?”

            “It’s way easier than it looks.” She put her glass down and ponderously rubbed her chin. “The way I see it, everyone has the same palette of emotions. It’s just the circumstances are different. You just mix them differently.” She made big circles with her finger and dabbed at imaginary paint.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, when I’m acting, I try to remember times when I felt a certain way.” She snarled and whooped, laughing Bucky’s startled eyes. “The audience can’t see what’s going on in my head, you see. They just need to see my character angry. If they were paying attention, they’ll know why my character is angry, but, for all they know, the thoughts that are making my exterior angry differ from my character’s present circumstances. But they don’t need to know that.”

            “Is that so?” He rummaged through his memory, trying to think of a time when he was gripped by longing. Steve was probably making dinner again. “Do you think I’d be a good actor?”

            “I think so. You know how to put it on. The charm, that is. I’m sorry, that almost sounded insulting.” She shoved his shoulder playfully. “What I meant was, people do a little acting every day.”

            “Must mean you meet a lotta actors.”

            “I do! But it’s so hard to get one of them to go out with you,” she huffed and tapped her toe beneath the table. “A lot of them don’t go out much with girls.”

            “I think I know what you mean,” Bucky said. “I have a buddy, Steve. I keep tryin’ to get him to open up a little more, have some fun.” He smiled wide. “And sometimes I worry, you know? He’s probably alone at our place right now, just twiddling his thumbs, waiting until I get home.”

            Barbara nodded and hummed. “Have you known him for a long time?”

            “Years. I’m surprised he’s survived that long. I’m always the one getting him outta trouble. Last week, he got in it with a coupl’a goons harassing this stray dog.” He smiled in a pained sort of way and rested his chin in his pal, idly rubbing the condensation on his pint glass.

            “That’s awful.”

            “It is. But at least there’s somebody sticking up for the lil’ guy, you know?”

            “Yourself or Steve?”

            Bucky sat up in his stool. “No! No. I meant that, well, I like that there’s somebody so naively good. No, that ain’t it. Maybe more that somebody’s willing to put himself on the line like that.” He took a long drink. “But you’re right. I do have to lend a hand sometimes.”

            “Sounds like you have an uncommon kind of friendship.” Her finger traveled the rim of her glass, as if divining from a crystal ball. He changed then, when they were talking about Steve; only an actor’s eye could have caught it.

            “Guess it sorta makes me out to be an ass, leaving him all alone like that when I know bad things tend to happen.” He slouched.

            She silenced him with a fingertip on his lips. “I’m sure he understands. He knows you’re coming back.”

            After laying out the last of his paycheck, he brought her out on the curb and pulled Barbara close. He envisioned the dancers at the club, the gentle sway of their hips, which undulated like the smooth clarinets. He pictured a woman he glanced at when he was out buying milk for Steve. She had a hesitant, yearning gaze like a small, quiet declaration, the way Steve looked when he was drawing. All sorts of beautiful girls swam through his mind, even while he was unable to concentrate on the one before him, who rested under his fingertips.

            His lips knew the give and take; the act was a script he was attempting to read aloud. Neither life nor spark animated his kisses and Barbara knew she was only getting this cold read through.

            Barbara grazed her palms against his chest and removed herself from him. “Listen, you’re a nice guy and all. I had a great time—don’t get me wrong. But, I don’t really see this going anywhere.”

            Bucky opened his eyes. “You don’t?”

            “You are interested. Really interested. Just not in me.” She smiled sad and wise. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner. You should treat that special someone to one just like it.”

            Bucky was quiet when she walked away. The rest of the night fell away into pint glasses. The sun was up for several hours before he woke again to Steve’s considering eyes. “Hey buddy,” Bucky managed.

            “Are we going to keep doing this?” Steve’s crossed his arms.

            “Doing what?” Bucky asked, as if he were ignorant of Steve’s small kindnesses, how he cleaned up his trail of destruction, ironed his suit and mended the tears in his Sunday best. Bucky saw the seams.

            “You know, I’m fine with you not inviting me on your little conquests.” Steve dropped an undershirt and trousers onto his bed. “Just don’t leave me waiting. You know how I get.”

            Bucky leaned up on his elbows. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.”

            Steve handed him the other half of his sandwich, and Bucky lumped it into his mouth. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you, Buck.”

 

\+ + +

 

            It was as if Diana had emerged straight from a dream, wrapped in chiffon and silk, her beauty more conceptual than practical. She was like the statues Steve had shown him in the dusty books at the library. Every touch was a blessing and speaking to her felt like a hard-won privilege. Hers was the face that toppled nations. And none of it stirred him.

            She had chosen him, out of all the men in the bar, and he could do nothing except acknowledge her beauty. He knew she was beautiful like he knew storms were. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears, lending her long face and neck a viper’s entrancing curve. She strolled over and sat in his booth, uninvited but not unwelcome. She ordered a glass of wine and sipped at it, her lips softly twisting in consideration.

            She asked what his name was, and he answered, “James.” She shook her head and pursed her lips.

            “Diana,” she said she held out a hand. He took it and pressed her knuckles against his lips. “You don’t go by that name often, do you?”

            “How d’ya know that?”

            “From the way you said it. _James_. It sounded like you were testifying rather than introducing yourself to a lovely lady.”

            “Is that so? Well, you’re right. I don’t. It’s a big place, lots of people have nicknames.”

            “Oh, I know. One day you’re named Larry and another, Dean.”

            “Well, today you can call me Bucky.” He grinned, and moved to the corner of the booth, putting his legs up on the leather seats, erecting a barrier of cool between him and Diana. “What brings you to a joint like this? With that dress you could get into any club in town. And with any man.”

            “People can be more interesting in places like these,” she murmured darkly. “Sometimes they have a lot on their mind and they come here to think. Like you.”

            “Is that right? Am I an open book tonight?”

            “And I speak the language.” Her eyes narrowed playfully. “By the by, no need to be so nervous,” she said, voice like a song.

            Bucky looked her dead in the eye. “What makes you say that?”

            She chuckled, her hair cascading down her shoulders. “That drink will have been your sixth.”

            “So? Maybe I like drinking. Clearly, it’s done me a ton of good.”

            “Believe me, I’ve met men who like to drink.” Her eyelashes fluttered to the side, as if she were scanning a page. “And right now, you don’t look like you’re enjoying it so much.”

            “That’s crazy talk. What’s not to like? _You’re_ sitting with me, ain’t you? Every John, Glenn and Bob in this bar would trade a year’s salary to be in my shoes.” Bucky replied, a practiced, opaque smirk spreading across his face. She leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, readying herself to strike. “Besides, people have a lots of reasons to drink. Hear about the war brewing?” Bucky continued, keeping his tone light but sharp.

            She uncurled her long fingers and had them creep across the table. “In Europe or in your gut?”

            Bucky remained silent, his heart beating acutely. He felt stares from all across the bar. He snuck a glance. None were focused on him, only on this deity before him. Some lips seemed to goad him into action and others slumped as they huddled over their warm beer. Without warning, his legs were thrown aside and Diana close to him on his side of the booth.

            “Don’t mean to ruffle your feathers. It’s easier to speak privately this way.” She slid her glass over, calm but austere and studied him for what felt like hours. “I know,” she said at last.

            “Know what?” Bucky asked, fumbling for his wallet. He needed to just pay and leave, head to a different bar, try to find different company and flee this knowing snake in the grass. But her hand was on his knee, warm. And her eyes were not predatory, but soft and inquiring.

            “Call it a sixth sense. You and I both know that we aren’t like other people.”

            “Diana, I swear I have no idea what you’re going on about.” He grabbed her wrist and tossed it aside.

            “Oh you’re such a tease, James!” Diana said conspicuously. Bucky was trapped, he couldn’t very well slide under the table and run for the hills—if the hungry wolves doubted his desire for the lamb before him, they’d run him out of the pack. So he sat and she lit a cigarette, maybe to cloud their faces.

            “I have friends too, James. Friends like you,” she whispered. “Good, loyal, even when you don’t deserve it.” She re-tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. “Perhaps you have a friend like mine.”

            Bucky froze. “Maybe I do. Or maybe…I don’t know what he’s like.”

            She took his hand and put it around her waist. “You’ve been in and out of bars and dives, looking for a girl. I’ve seen you around. But you’ve also been avoiding him, his eyes, his touch, thinking all the while that you have some defect.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and stared at the light fixture from a thousand miles away. “You try and try to fit in, hoping it will hit you one day.” She took a long, soulful drag, letting the smoke dissolve into the air like so many well-tread thoughts. “And then, one day, when everything seems to be going right, when you seem to be on the straight and narrow, she’s gone, thinking you’ve abandoned her. And maybe you have.”

            “She?”

            Her dark lips smiled, revived from reverie. “Sorry. Sometimes I get lost in my head. I’m sure you know the feeling. It’s like you think you’re under constant scrutinization.”

            The ash from his cigarette crumbled onto his knee. “You ain’t lying there.” She stood at the edge of the table now. He followed her, brushing off the seat of his pants, leaving another stack of bills to cover his tab. “What do you suggest I do about it?”

            “I don’t know. I’m not suggesting anything.”

They walked down the street in silence. He knew she was alone in this world. He guessed humans must have some kind of instinctive knowledge about that. Steve frequently possessed the dazed wistfulness that played across her features, almost as if he were displaying them for observation. He was trying to dispel the thought when she interrupted. “What is his name?”

“Why? You got a cop trailing us?”

           “Don’t be so paranoid,” she said, scanning the street.

            “Fine then. His name is Steve. He’s a little blonde twerp who's too good for me and we’ve been best friends for as long as we can remember. Satisfied?”

            She giggled. “Sounds like you’ve fallen hard. My girl was named Joanna. I guess she was a twerp too.”

Diana fingered his lapels, only wanting something to do with her hands. “I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone else. If anyone finds out—well, I suppose you know you know what happens then.”

            Bucky’s breath stilled.

            “I guess what I’m saying is this: there are others like you. Most of them never get a chance to be happy. I might have lost mine, Bucky. But Steve might still have his. He's waiting for it.” She pressed his lips to his and to any swaying observers Bucky was the luckiest man in the world.

 

\+ + +

 

            The sun was up again. Steve decided to open his curtains, wishing to catch a few rays while he was able. It was Sunday. In his minuscule bedroom, on his minuscule mattress, he remembered the haunting rings about Bucky’s eyes, and how the lines around his mouth have lately appeared more frowning than smiling. He readied himself for his routine, pulling on his hole-ridden socks and a pained smile.

            When he opened his bedroom door, he found Bucky upright for the first time in weeks. “Hey,” Bucky said.

            Steve took a seat next to him. The smell of liquor still hung on Bucky’s breath, but only just. “How…how did your night go?”

            Bucky was stiff as a board. He ran his calloused hand over his face. “It was a little rough.”

            Steve smile vanished. “I’m sorry, Bucky. Maybe next time?”

            Bucky removed his hat, leaving a few stray locks to hang in his face. Steve cleared them from his eyes and Bucky took a deep breath. “Nah. I don’t think there’s gonna be a next time.”

            Steve cast his eyes to the side. “Don’t talk like that, Buck. It'll happen.”

            Bucky swung his leg onto the beaten up couch. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. She just got me thinking.”

            “About what?”

            “How people are. About how some are...different.”

            Steve froze. “Was she different?”

            “Yeah. But she also said that maybe it’s not a bad thing. Well, not that exactly.” Bucky’s hands were slow as they trailed across Steve’s arm. “More like other people make it bad.” His touch began as a warning, but turned into a slowly dawning revelation. Steve gripped Bucky’s wrist, then cupped his hand. “She said that people like us can be happy.”

            “I’m happy, Buck. I have the best friend in the whole world.” And then, Steve was close, closer than friends were supposed to be. And he kissed him.

            “You’re breathing awful hard, Steve. You’re not having an asthma attack, are you?” Bucky chuckled nervously.

            Steve pressed his forehead into Bucky’s collarbone. “I’m really not sure.” He felt the calloused fingers run through his blond locks and over the back of his neck. “But…I think she was right.” Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve, feeling weeks of tension and stress empty from him.

            His breath hitched as Steve clumsily pressed his lips to his once more. Bucky welcomed him and guided him with his greater experience, giving him cues to follow and rewarding him with whimpered promises. “I’ll do all the dishes and I’ll buy you a stack of sketch pads, and scrub the place from top to bottom, anything you want, anything, just don’t leave me, ‘kay?”

            Steve grasped him at the temples, bringing him in playfully, yet hesitantly, like he was playing with a wonderful flaming taboo. Bucky’s breath shuddered and he felt the burn of Steve’s skin against his.

            Steve moaned as they parted, both out of breath and with everything to say. “Just teach me how to do all this, this heavy petting stuff right. We’ll call it even then, okay?” Steve panted, an uncouth smile spreading across his bony face.

            Bucky smirked that big dumb smirk of his.

           

 


End file.
